


say you'll be there

by Bluebluebaby



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: 90s AU, F/F, Girl Band Au, spice girls AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-05 18:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11019279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebluebaby/pseuds/Bluebluebaby
Summary: Joining Britain's hottest new pop group is the opportunity of a lifetime for Delia Busby.But is success worth selling out?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> background: I'm setting this around 1999, loosely. The Spice Girls don't exist in this universe (although they are, obviously, a huge inspiration to this project.) 
> 
> I'm sort of obsessed with music, so let me know if this drifts too far into boring shop talk! I PROMISE IT WILL GET GAYER, DON'T WORRY

Delia’s arms  _ hurt.  _

 

It had occurred to her, during the seemingly endless wait to audition, that she ought to have brought a gig-bag instead of a hardshell case (or, better yet, abandoned her guitar entirely). 

 

Then she’d considered just turning around and going home, but the crowd behind her was even more insurmountable than the one ahead. 

 

By the time she’s finally ushered into the sterile conference room her hands have gone numb. 

 

Thank god for open tunings. 

 

“Good morning…” 

 

“Delia, Delia Busy.” 

 

“Right,” the talent scout looks up from under her half-frame glasses, thick northern accent lending a harshness to her instructions that may or may not be genuine. “Let’s hear it, Delia.” 

 

She strums the guitar, thankful the tuning’s not gone too badly out. 

 

Deep breath through the nose, shoulders back, begin. 

 

Her knees shake through the first few bars, but once her voice opens up, the nerves disappear, flying away on the wings of the melody. 

 

She’s shocked to make it all the way through to the last “ _ They’ve paved paradise, and put up a parking lot” _ without fainting or being yanked out of the room, and all the energy returns once silence descends. 

 

“You  _ do  _ realize this is a pop audition, Delia?” 

 

She blushes, stammering. 

 

“My mam always says it’s not worth trying to please anyone else if you aren’t being true to yourself, and well, I’m not much of a belter.” 

 

The woman nods, approvingly. 

 

“There are a lot of singers in this world, Delia, but not a lot of artists. I see a lot of potential in you. I’d like to see you for callbacks, with a handful of the other girls, next week. I’ll have my assistant  email you the details.” 

 

Delia stands there, dumbstruck, for a moment. 

 

“Go on, now, I’ve got more dreams to crush, lass!” 

_ 

 

“So this means you’re leaving for London for good?” 

 

Delia’s mother is trying (unsuccessfully) to rein in her hysterics. 

 

“No, mam, it just means I’m one step farther along in the process. Until I sign a contract nothing is a done deal.” 

 

“They’d be a fool not to take you, cariad,” her father remarks between mouthfuls of his dinner. 

 

“It all depends on who else they’ve got lined up- you can have boatloads of talent, but without chemistry, no group can make it.” 

 

“Well, just so long as they don’t have you parading around half-dressed, I suppose I can support you in whatever happens. Remember who you’re representing, Delia. You’re not some random city tramp, you know.” 

 

“Gee, mam, nice to know you think so highly of my career aspirations.” 

 

“I’m just saying, your Joni Mitchell wasn’t gallivanting around like that Madonna. Keep your self-respect.” 

 

“I fully intend to.” 

 

Tension stifles the effort at conversation, and a strained silence descends over the table as Mr. Busby attempts to diffuse the situation. 

 

“Who would’ve thought my old guitar would have taken you so far, eh? I dare say I’m owed a finder’s fee!” 

_ 

 

It’s the longest and shortest week of her life. Mam and Dad have pledged a vow of silence until Delia actually has news to share with the town, and she spends her shifts at the cafe bouncing on her toes and biting her tongue, keeping her secret. 

 

“Any gigs coming up, Deels?” 

 

Rebecca is one of her regulars, a retired schoolteacher who loves to park out with a hot cuppa and a paperback on one of their oversized chairs. She was the only non-relative at Delia’s first public performance and proudly claims the title of  _ number one fan.  _

 

Delia hesitates before informing her about the callback, trusting her gut feeling that Becca’s is a safe ear to borrow. 

 

“That’s amazing,” Becca whispers, hushed awe filtering into her voice. “Just remember us little people when you make it big, you hear?” 

 

“I promise you’ll be on each and every guest list. But who knows, I might stick out like a sore thumb this weekend, and just go back to a life of sparsely attended coffeehouse sets.” 

 

Rebecca crosses her arms, frowning at Delia’s self-doubt. 

 

“If you think that way, you certainly will. You’re special, Delia Busby, and don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. I’ve met an awful lot of young people in my work, and they are each wonderful, valuable human beings, but very few shine like you do. I always knew we couldn’t keep you in Pembroke forever.” 

 

“Don’t tell that to my mam,” Delia half-jokes. 

 

“Oh, I’ll run interference with her if it means you get your dreams, love. Believe it or not, I’ve gone head-to-head with more fearsome parents.” 

 

Delia balks. 

 

“I don’t know if I can believe that such people exists, but I appreciate your vote of confidence.” 

 

She looks up at the clock, busing her last saucer of the shift. 

 

“And that’s my cue to go home and practice more obsessively.” 

 

Rebecca nods, moving to carry her own plate. 

 

“Just remember: the moment it stops being magic is the moment to get out.” 

 

_

 

Despite going to the exact same location as the week prior, Delia is very nearly late. And slightly rain-drenched when she does arrive. Of all the days to forget an umbrella… 

 

“Oh good, now we can begin. Thank you for joining us, Delia,” The stern woman from the week prior (Phyllis Crane, the email had elucidated,) greets her. 

 

“Sorry, Phyllis. Sorry, everyone,” she gestures to the four other women in the room. “This seems like a small crowd for a callback… am I not the only one running late?” 

 

Phyllis frowns. 

 

“No, Ms. Busby, you are the last to arrive- no excuses on punctuality in the future I hope. We may be making a pop group but I expect full adherence to the classical rule: _ if you’re not early, you’re late _ .” 

 

Delia forcefully nods her understanding, setting her guitar case on the ground and shucking her damp jacket aside. 

 

“Now, if I might explain fully why you’re all here and what I envision for us going forward.” 

 

Phyllis clears her throat and adjusts her reading glasses. 

 

“I myself came of age during second-wave feminism, and I see a void of role models for the young women of today’s United Kingdom. Fortunately my record company sees the market potential of creating such role models, and have given me the resources to form a band of strong young women. Each of you are here because you were authentically yourselves in your auditions, even if your style is not what’s currently fashionable. I hope that we can combine the past and present to form an homage to womanhood in all its forms, fitting for the new millennium.” 

 

Delia looks around at the other women, who appear almost as confused and nervous as she does. 

 

The leggy redhead is the first to speak up. 

 

“It doesn’t hurt that we’ve got all the hair colors covered, too, does it?” 

 

Phyllis raises an eyebrow, impressed by the woman’s moxie. 

 

“Were that not the case, it could be easily remedied by stylists, but you do make my job a touch easier, yes. Now, as musicians, I think the best way for you all to become acquainted with one another is by reprising your auditions. Shelagh,” she gestures to a prim woman seated at the piano, “ can provide accompaniment as necessary.” 

 

Lucille, quietly confident, begins with a flawless rendition of Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly,” blending emotive belting with a delicate touch. 

 

She is, to say the least, a hard act to follow. 

 

Delia’s anxious to get it over with anyhow, and volunteers next. 

 

“And now, for something completely different!” 

 

The others giggle, grateful she’s fallen on the proverbial sword of comparison. 

 

Trixie adds a breathiness to Nancy Sinatra, and it’s clear she’s here more for her undeniable star power than for any musical brilliance. 

 

(Not that she’s bad, per se, but she delights much more in being seen than heard.) 

 

Barbara looks like she stepped out of a Doris Day set, so her choice of “Que Sera, Sera” feels more than apt. Her vibrato is richer than the famous blonde’s, her timbre velvety and warm. 

 

The bold ginger finishes the round (“Patience Mount, but if you call me anything but Patsy I cannot be held responsible for my actions), putting Julie London’s raspiness to shame with “Say it Isn’t So.” 

 

Delia knows, objectively, that it’s a sad song. Heartbreaking even, in its lyrical desperation, but she’ll be damned if she’s not drooling by the end. She supposes exerting one’s sexuality is a feminist notion, but she still looks toward the floor, feeling like an intruder to be witnessing the display. The other girls don’t seem to feel the same discomfort, watching with rapt attention. 

 

Maybe her mam’s influence has really taken and she’s more of a prude than she thought. 

 

Phyllis is right- once they’ve all heard one another, the conversation opens up freely. 

 

“Oh, you make the rest of us look so untalented with your guitar playing,” Trixie gushes. 

 

“Pshhh, I couldn’t dance to save my life- it’s all a very well-orchestrated cover-up,” Delia deflects. 

 

“Do you ever play jazz?” Patsy studies her curiously. 

 

“A bit in school, but I’m afraid I need a bit more practice on a hollowbody before I’d be allowed anywhere near you.” 

 

Patsy grins, devilish. 

 

“I’m happy to oblige if you ever feel like working something up.” 

“So, are we going to be like an all-girl Village People?” 

 

Lucille directs the question to Phyllis. 

 

“Not exactly, though I suppose the idea of branding is a bit similar. Each of you reflects a certain era of music- Patsy, jazz standards, Barbara, pop crooners, Lucille,  R & B, Delia ,folk, and Trixie, 60’s mod. Our hope is by combining references to the past with modern compositions, we can reach a diverse audience of fans, young and old.” 

 

“So we preach female empowerment and get rich off of it? I can’t argue with that proposal.” 

 

The others shrug, too excited at the thrill of fame to question Phyllis’s motives, or the potential of being taken advantage. 

 

Delia can’t help but hear Rebecca’s warning in her head, but the excitement of the day, hearing these women sing and thinking of a future filled with hundreds of packed gigs quickly drowns out her misgivings. 

 

“I know it’s very sudden, but if you’re all amenable, we can get the contracts drawn up by next week and have you all moved in together as soon as possible. I’ll be plain- this will be a hard, intense process. You will all be exhausted by the time we finish rehearsals each day, and you’ll probably be sick of each other before we ever start a tour bus. But I’ve been in this business a long time, and I know good when I see it. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Are you in?” 

 

She’d be a fool to say no. And Delia Busby is many things, but she’s sure as hell not a fool. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GIRL BAND HOUSE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've missed hanging out with my friends! writing is fun, i should do it more often.

 

“So that’s it? You’re gone just like that, with the flourish of a pin and a wave goodbye?” 

 

Delia frowns. 

 

“I got a gig, mam, I’m not enlisting in the army. It’s not like I’m never coming home. But they do want us to live and rehearse in London, and I can’t exactly commute back and forth every day.” 

 

“What about on the weekends?” 

 

(It hasn’t yet occurred to Mrs. Busby that a full-time musician’s schedule would make Friday and Saturday night’s Delia’s busiest. That, or she’s willfully ignoring reality.) 

 

“I’ll call every night. And try to visit at least once a month.” 

 

Her mother crosses her arms, nodding imperceptibly. 

 

“Once a fortnight would be preferable, but I can’t be the one to get between you and your dreams.” 

 

“I was always going to leave, mam, surely you knew that.” 

 

(The words are hard to get out around the lump in her throat.) 

 

“I knew it was a matter of time, yes. But you never expect these things to happen so soon.” 

 

Delia winces. 

 

“What if I’m not ready?” 

 

Her mother shakes her head, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

 

“Oh,  _ cariad,  _ just because I’m not prepared to let you go doesn’t mean you’re not ready. You’ve been singing since before you could talk.” 

 

She dabs a handkerchief at the corner of her eyes. 

 

“I think the house might be a bit empty without all of your music.” 

 

“I’ll make sure the tour comes through Wales, and you’ll be in the front row.” 

 

“Oh, you’d best have free tickets for the whole family, Delia.” 

_ 

 

“Wow.” 

 

Barbara gapes up at the vaulted ceiling as her beat-up duffel bag falls to the ground. 

 

“Are you sure we’re at the right place?” 

 

Trixie huffs on a cigarette, tapping her toes impatiently. 

 

Phyllis rolls up in her car, a surprisingly modest sedan for a such a presumably wealthy woman. 

 

“I suppose I should have mentioned that you’ll be staying in a convent, ladies. A renovated convent, but a historical building nonetheless.” 

 

She turns the look and ushers in the five women, whose expressions run the gamut from innocently awed to utterly unimpressed. 

 

“On the bottom floor we have our rehearsal space and demo studio, in addition to the kitchen and laundry facilities. Your rooms are all upstairs.” 

 

“And bathrooms?” 

 

Patsy looks like she already knows the answer, but hopes against hope, nonetheless. 

 

“Communal. You’ll all be getting very close very quickly.” 

 

A collective groan emerges, albeit a half-hearted one. It’s not like they’ve got any other option, short of showering in the kitchen sink. 

 

Phyllis clasps her hands, regaining authority. 

 

“Go get settled in, and we’ll meet in the studio in an hour. Wear something comfortable.” 

 

She marches off to prepare for shaping the phenoms of tomorrow. 

 

Lucille leads them upstairs. 

 

“Looks like three single rooms and a double. Does anyone have a strong preference?” 

 

“I’m alright with sharing,” Barbara volunteers, as the others shirk. 

 

Might as well go along to get along. 

 

“I can bunk with Babs. More than used to tight quarters,” Delia shrugs. 

 

Trixie and Patsy sigh. 

 

“Barbara, no offense, but I had a truly traumatic boarding school experience, and lovely as you are, I don’t think I could bear to be reminded of those days.” 

 

Patsy delivers the excuse as a joke, but gratitude shines in her eyes.

 

“I don’t have a good reason other than wanting a full wardrobe to myself,” Trixie smirks. 

 

Lucille turns from where she’s already begun unpacking. 

 

“I’m doing all of you a favour- my sister says I snore loud enough to wake the dead.” 

 

_

Barbara’s just as friendly as she seems. She insists on Delia taking first pick of the beds, joking about it’s an upgrade from the bunks she and her sister shared as children. 

 

“You know, I thought I would be the outlier coming from Liverpool, but I dare say you have me beat on exoticism!” 

 

“Or provincialism, rather,” Delia scoffs. “It’s funny, everyone at home thinks I’m trying so hard to be hip and cosmopolitan, and now I feel like an utter country bumpkin.” 

 

 

Barbara dismisses her insecurities. 

 

“Please, it’s plain that Trixie and I have been tapped for our potential, but you and Patsy and Lucille are all total professionals. Anyone who judges you will be ashamed of themselves once they hear you sing.” 

 

Delia’s inclined to ignore the compliment, but Barbara is sincere, and, well, the words do make her feel a bit better. 

 

“Thanks. Now, does comfortable mean running kit or jeans?” 

 

“I’ve half a mind to wear pyjamas, but I don’t think Phyllis and I are quite on playful joking terms just yet.” 

_

 

They’ve all settled on some form of athleisure; Delia pairs trainers with baggy jeans, while Trixie is dressed in a full on leotard. Patsy’s plimsolls look brand new- her posture suggests that the only time anyone sees her in such a state is if they have the distinct privilege of waking up next to her in the morning. 

 

A slender man stands next to Phyllis, arms clasped behind him and feet in first position. 

 

“Thank you for your punctuality, ladies. If you’re not aware, the gentlemen to my right is Tony Amos, one of the most well-respected choreographers in the UK.” 

 

He winks at Trixie, who grins in a way that implies they’re already acquainted. 

 

“Tony is going to assess your skill sets and work with you all on using movement to express your persona. Once he knows your capabilities, he can begin choreography for your debut performance.” 

 

Tony leads them through a simple routine, and steps back to observe as they repeat it a few times. 

 

“Alright Ladies, I think I’ve got an idea of where you’re at. Trixie, I think I can trust you to support the others in their development as dancers. You’re a jill of all trades, but grace is really your hallmark. Patsy and Lucille, everything about you screams  _ confidence. _ Commanding simplicity.” 

 

He turns to Delia, pursing his lips. 

 

“I sense a quiet power from you, Busby. You don’t love to be front and center, do you?” 

 

Delia blushes. 

 

“I think I’d rather be heard than seen, if that’s what you mean.” 

 

He nods, eyes smiling. 

 

“Unfortunately, we can’t put your voice on a t-shirt. You’re a natural athlete, I can tell. We’ll keep you busy.” 

 

“And me?” 

 

Barbara looks simultaneously eager and terrified, her innate clumsiness having already reared its head. 

 

 

“You’re very cute, Barbara. We can make the most of that… without jeopardizing you or your bandmates.” 

 

She shrugs goodnaturedly, choosing to focus on the positive. 

 

Phyllis pulls out a ream of schedules and hands them to a nameless assistant. 

 

(Delia’s not sure where she came from, honestly.) 

 

“Let’s break for dinner, then we’ll regroup for music rehearsal.” 

 

_ 

 

Delia guzzles water in the kitchen, wiping sweat from her brow. 

 

“Do you want to go out,” a velvety voice questions. 

 

“Excuse me?” 

 

Delia splutters, apparently meeting her early demise by faucet. 

 

“Barbara and Trixie want to cook, but Lucille and I are going to get takeaway. Would you like to come with?” 

 

Delia blushes, privately mortified at her misunderstanding. 

 

“As long as it’s nothing too posh- I’m not exactly dressed for it.” 

 

Patsy grins, lop-sided. 

 

“I think you’re more than good enough for a chippy.” 

 

They hold eye contact for a moment longer than is strictly appropriate for acquaintances (no matter how enmeshed their futures may be), before Lucille bounds back down the stairs, unwittingly interrupting. 

 

“I could eat a horse. Please don’t make me wait any longer.” 

 

_

 

“Okay, speed-dating,” Lucille offers between mouthfuls. 

 

“You’re a whole new woman once you’ve eaten,” Patsy ribs. 

 

“Hush. I mean, quick bio, rundown, tell me everything about yourselves you can in two minutes. I’ll start. My dad’s Jamaican, my mom’s british, no I don’t sing reggae, I studied opera at university but rich white people exhaust me, Sarah Vaughan is the best singer but Nina Simone is the most important, I fully intend on having a rich and full solo-career once we’ve ridden out our contracts.” 

 

Delia nods, impressed. She’s always admired women who don’t suffer fools- it’s one of the things she actually hopes she takes after her mother. 

 

“Welsh. Obviously. I’ve been writing songs for almost ten years but have only been playing them for two years. No formal training, other than my dad teaching me a few chords when I got started. All I’ve ever wanted was to make a living making music. And maybe, proving my mother wrong.” 

 

Patsy neatly folds her grease-stained wrapper, pursing her lips in thought. 

 

“Overprivileged orphan who abandoned an easy life of luxury to sing for winos in shitty cabarets. I auditioned on a dare. I’m not one to ever back out of a dare.” 

 

She raises a brow, silently fending off question or comment. 

 

Lucille laughs. 

 

“We’re practically BFFs now, aren’t we?” 

 

Her eyes widen conspiratorially. 

 

“I forgot the most important question- have you two got chaps, or are you free agents? I mean, that’s the best part of fame, right? Wineing and dining with Britain’s finest?” 

 

“Oh, I don’t really care about that sort of thing,” Delia demurs. 

 

“I’m as free as they come,” Patsy retorts. “But you’re spoken for, aren’t you?” 

 

“Engaged, actually,” Lucille reveals a modest band. “But I’m very much looking forward to living vicariously through all of you.” 

 

It’s easy to get her started talking on her beau, a bassist and recording engineer. Delia half-listens, trying to ignore the strange sensation in her chest. 

 

Funny, she’s never had heartburn before… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the girl band finally girl bands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (here's a shitty garage-band demo of the song: https://soundcloud.com/catherinethegreatmusic/love-me-now/s-HxVCb
> 
> ur girl is not a pop singer, but u get the idea)

Phyllis passes out sheet music as they enter the rehearsal space. Tim’s seated at the piano, looking a bit bored. A clean-cut man stands beside him, fidgeting nervously as he awaits his introduction. 

 

“Ladies, this is Tom Hereward. He thinks himself a songwriter.” 

 

(It’s hard to tell by Tom’s blush if Phyllis is teasing or legitimately criticising. Delia supposes the proof of the song will be in its hearing.) 

 

“Good evening, girls,” He greets, manufactured cheer covering his abject terror. 

 

Patsy raises a brow at Delia, as if to say  _ ‘really? I’m a grown woman.’  _ but Delia just shrugs in response- she’s always looked a little young, and twenty-one is hardly the pinnacle of maturity, anyhow. 

 

He clears his throat. 

 

“We’ll get the full band in tomorrow but I wanted to see if we could work up a vocal arrangement tonight of this tune.” 

 

Tom is entirely indecisive on who should sing what, and when, but once they push him aside and self-govern, the song really isn’t that bad. 

 

Then again, Delia thinks Lucille could probably make a hit out of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” 

 

There are a few off harmonies, and after an hour patience is beginning to wear thin. 

 

“I’m just saying we should play to our strengths,” Trixie opines. “We don’t all have to sing all the parts all the time.” 

 

“Well, we shouldn’t have to slow ourselves down to accommodate stragglers, either,” Patsy huffs. 

 

Barbara steps in between them. 

 

“It’s our very first rehearsal! Have a little patience, Patsy.”  Trixie looks briefly vindicated, before Barbara turns to her. “And Trixie- if you’re not here to challenge yourself and grow, you might want to rethink your choices.” 

 

She crosses her arms and nods, decisively. 

 

Phyllis takes off her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose, second-guessing all the life choices that led her to this point. 

 

“Let’s take five and give it one more go, shall we?” 

 

Patsy marches off, clearly wanting to be alone. Trixie walks away as well, and Delia leans against the wall next to Barbara. 

 

“Are you sure you’re not destined for a long career in international diplomacy?”

 

“Or psychotherapy,” Lucille offers. 

 

Barbara snorts. 

 

“My father is a vicar, and I used to eavesdrop on his marriage counseling sessions when I was younger. I learned a lot about conflict resolution.” 

 

“Well from the looks of things, you’ll need those skills.” Lucille rolls her eyes. “Not to be sexist, but that was some intense cat-fighting.” 

“Oh, don’t go that far,” Delia interjects. “It’s a high-pressure situation and we all hardly know each other. It will get better.” 

 

As if on cue, Trixie and Patsy return together, giggling like old friends. 

 

“You’re all good now?”

 

Barbara and Delia’s faces echo Lucille’s question. 

 

Trixie nods, surreptitiously returning a carton of cigarettes to her handbag. 

 

“A friend in need is a friend, indeed.” 

 

Patsy smirks. 

 

“It’s Trixie’s fault that I’ve reneged on my vow to quit smoking. But she let me bum one off her, so I love her forever and always.” 

 

Delia feels her throat constrict as the faint smell follows them down the hall. She can’t stop the dry cough that escapes. 

 

Patsy’s lighthearted banter turns to concern. 

 

“Delia, are you alright?” 

 

“It’s just a touch of asthma- I’m sensitive to smoke.” 

 

Patsy’s eyes widen in horror at the (relatively mild, all things considered) consequences of her actions. 

 

“I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again. Trixie, consider me officially back on the wagon.” 

 

Lucille is poised to start in on a lecture of all the ways smoking can damage one’s vocal folds, not to mention lungs and ability to properly support and sustain sound, but Phyllis’s voice interrupts. 

 

“Alright, Ladies, I may be invested in your success, but it’s not worth missing my bedtime over. Hop to it!” 

 

Blessedly, their last run-through is almost  _ good. _

 

Delia can hear in her head where the drums and bass will fit, but they’ve got a groove going. The entrances are seamless, and they’re edging ever nearer to a good vocal blend (although the mix of accents makes it easier said than done). 

 

Tom applauds at the finish. 

 

“This is a million times better than me and my midi- thanks for all your hard work ladies.” 

 

He addresses the group, but his eyes lock with Barbara, who grins shyly. 

 

Phyllis concurs that their work is already beginning to pay off.

 

“Now, I know you’ll all be tempted to play slumber party, but please do get some sleep tonight. This is a marathon, not a sprint.” 

_ 

 

Barbara rushes off to shower, while Lucille puts on the kettle and Trixie goes out for another smoke. 

 

Delia finds herself sat on her new bed, guitar in hand before she thinks any better of it, soothing herself with familiar chords and motions. 

 

For a moment she forgets where she is (and that she has flatmates) until Patsy pops her head in the open door. 

 

“Is that one of your songs?” 

 

Delia sets her guitar down, embarrassed. 

 

“It’s not much of anything. Just muscle memory, I think.” 

 

“I’d love to hear your stuff sometime.” 

 

“Maybe when you know me a little better,” Delia winks. “It’s not a privilege to be taken lightly, having the honour of hearing Delia Busby originals.” 

 

Patsy plays along, mock-serious. 

 

“I shall do everything in my power to earn your trust, then.” 

 

Lucille and Trixie come upstairs, offering tea and biscuits. 

 

“I can’t believe you’re playing right now. I’m sick to death of music!” 

“Eh, Delia’s got the right idea,” Lucille argues. “You have to remind yourself why you love it when it gets frustrating. Go back to basics.” 

 

Barbara shuffles into the room, fluffy bunny slippers upon her feet and a towel wrapped around her head. 

 

“I feel as though I’ve missed something.” 

 

“Deels is about to serenade us,” Patsy winks, offering her a cup of tea. 

 

“Oh, that sounds lovely! But, um, I would kind of like to change into pyjamas without so much company?” 

 

They leave her in peace, moving to sit in the hallway, legs sprawled out among saucers and teacups. 

 

“Oh, I’ve got one!” 

 

Lucille snaps her fingers a couple times, feeling the beat. 

 

“ _ I don’t like you, but I love you... “ _

 

Delia finds the key and goes into a doowop rhythm, mixing bar chords and a walking bass. 

 

It’s easier with a tune they all know- Delia finds the high harmony easily, and Patsy takes the low, sandwiching Lucille in a rich triad. Even Trixie joins in, against her earlier protestations, and Barbara emerges just in time to take the lead on the last verse. 

 

After that the floodgates open, and they pass half the night moving through oldies, from Elton John to the Ronettes to Simon and Garfunkel. 

 

Delia’s always thought you could tell a lot about people by the way the play with others. 

 

Trixie’s flirtatious, but insecure, over-exaggerating on her campy delivery to hide a fear that she isn’t as good as the others. 

 

Lucille has every right to be a diva, but she’s kind, holding open proverbial doors for the others to walk through, genuine joy on her face when someone else nails a lead.

 

Barbara is earnest- treating every note like it’s the most precious gift, pure and important and just as valuable as any other. She’s the type to never complain about a dull alto part in the church choir. 

 

Patsy though, Patsy is more of a mystery. There are times when she lets herself lean against Delia’s shoulder, really opens up and lets loose, and it’s absolutely brilliant the way their voices blend, when it’s all instinct. But then it’s like she catches herself- tenses up, moves away, just enough for Delia to notice.  It’s the difference between good and great, she thinks, that veil of self-awareness. 

 

Eventually their yawns are too frequent to carry on, and Trixie stands and stretches. 

 

“If I wait a minute longer I’ll have the most horrid bags under my eyes. Good night, girls. This was better than I expected.” 

 

“My faith in you all is restored,” Lucille grins. “I hope I’m far enough down the hall that my snores don’t keep you up.” 

 

Patsy shakes the sleep out of her eyes, offering a hand up to Delia. 

 

“Thanks, Deels. You’re an absolute lifesaver.” 

 

She wants to stop and say ‘ _ No one has ever called me Deels before and I’m not quite sure what makes you think you could be the first,’  _ but she settles for “Goodnight, Pats,” instead. 

 

She half-expects a death glare as Patsy turns over her shoulder, but instead, she’s met with a sparkling eyes and a secretive smile. 

 

Barbara hums happily as they get ready for bed, thrilled to death at the day’s adventures and the prospect of another exciting tomorrow. 

 

(And, from the sound of it, seeing Tom again.) 

 

Delia is bone-tired, more than she has been in a long time, but sleep takes a moment to come. She dreams about duets and dancing and flame and ash. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slow burns gotta slow burn. 
> 
> Thanks for reading y'all, your feedback means the world! 
> 
> things are real hard out in this old world- i'm glad and grateful to share a bit of escapism with you. be kind to yourselves whenever you can <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy gets outed. Delia gets fake eyelashes. 
> 
> (cw: homophobia)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it has been... a hot minute! 
> 
> things are pretty rough my way, but i'm hoping to regain some momentum on this if anyone is still reading.   
> (fortunately, there's a boatload of great stuff in the pupcake tag, so hopefully you weren't left too wanting.)

The next few weeks feel like summer camp- exhausting and busy and so richly detailed that each moment feels like she will remember it for a lifetime (until, of course, the next arrives, and there is no time left for recollection). Delia doesn’t have room to being homesick- she scarcely manages to call her mother as much as promised. 

 

(The conversations consist mostly of assuring her that she’s eating enough and getting sleep and is staying far too busy to succumb to the big city’s debauchery.) 

 

The music is the easiest bit to pull together- Phyllis is a woman of vision after all, and they manage to bring the effortless blend of their hallway jam into the studio. 

 

Even the choreography finds its way, once Barbara learns enough bodily awareness to prevent collisions. 

 

It’s all the other  _ stuff  _ that gives Delia pause, makes her second-guess whether her bright future is pyrrhic. 

 

They’re all sat in front of mirrors, makeup artists and hairdressers and stylists transforming them from ordinary women into pop stars. 

 

Trixie grills the staff on their techniques, making notes to recreate her winged eyeliner at her convenience. Barbara giggles in shock at her own transformation. Patsy and Lucille maintain their usual confidence, accepting the pampering as par for the course. 

 

Delia looks into the mirror and wants to shrink into herself. 

 

She knows, objectively, she looks pretty, but she just doesn’t feel like… Delia. 

 

Her freckles disappear under foundation, so thick not even a pore is visible. Her lashes are false and foreign, and her uncomfortable blinking reads more as coquettish than confused. 

 

But this, like everything else, is a performance, so she summons her best facade. 

 

It’s easy enough to go along with everyone else- people tend to be so self-absorbed that as long as you don’t actively get in their way, they’re not likely to notice you. A quip or smile every now and then, and no one’s  the wiser that she’s absolutely miserable. 

 

Still, Delia can’t help but exhale in relief when they’re finally free of harsh photographer’s lights and camera crews and the paid scrutiny of twenty beauty professionals. 

 

**“** I always knew beauty was hard work, but I’m e _ xhausted _ ,” Trixie sighs melodramatically, before excusing herself for a long, hot, restorative bath. 

 

Lucille stakes her claim on the landline, dragging the cord as far away as possible to ensure some small measure of privacy. 

 

Delia still doesn’t know how to feel, or what to do, so she joins Patsy and Barbara where they’re sprawled across the living room furniture. 

 

Barbara stares at the screen, entranced, (“My father never let us watch telly!”) but Patsy leans toward her, whispering. 

 

“Are you alright? You sort of looked like you were about to be sick all day.” 

 

“You picked up on that? I mean, I’m not ill-” she’s quick to reassure Patsy that the chances of her vomiting are slim to none, “I just, don’t do well with playing dress-up, I suppose.” 

 

Patsy smiles sympathetically. 

 

“For what it’s worth, I think you look perfect just as you are.” 

 

Her grin widens, dimples showing themselves. 

 

Delia feels her own smile emerge for the first time all day, and their eyes lock for much longer than generally occurs between platonic acquaintances. 

 

Patsy clears her throat, blushing as she realizes the subtext of her speech. 

 

“Babs, what on _ earth _ are we watching?”

_

 

Phyllis is practically crowing with glee when she presents the band with their full press kit. Posters featuring the quintet in monochromatic garb, with block letters labeling their ensemble  **MidLIFE.**

 

“I still don’t get the name,” Patsy bemoans, “are we trying to attract an audience of football mums?” 

 

“It’s meant to evoke the spirit of  _ carpe diem.  _ And the name is the least important bit. It’s all about  _ image,  _ ladies.” 

 

“And music?” 

 

Lucille rolls her eyes. 

 

“Of course, girls, it would follow that given the product we are selling is pop songs, a bit of talent wouldn’t hurt things. Which is why you’ll be pleased to know that your first public gig is booked.” 

 

Trixie squeals. 

Barbara faints. 

Before she can second-guess her excitement, Delia wraps her arms around Patsy in a fierce hug. 

 

_ This is it.  _

_

 

For all her love of making music, Delia finds that performances often become an out-of-body experience, guided more by muscle-memory and intuition than any sort of laser-sharp focus. 

 

Almost before it’s begun, the show is over. It’s not a stadium by any means- rather, a dimly lit club full of industry executives and other “exclusive guests,” eager to see the next big thing. 

 

But the reception is warm, to say the least. 

 

As soon as they’re off stage, the girls are mobbed with free drinks and business cards and advances, both welcome and unwelcome. Phyllis introduces them to her inner circle, one by one, as the rest are left to drift. 

 

Delia nurses a cocktail and winds up smiling and nodding as a young man talks about himself for ten minutes while she nods and hums at random intervals. Seeking an exit from the conversation/monologue/hostage situation, her eyes roam the room. 

 

They widen when she sees Patsy leaning towards another young woman, laughing louder than anyone does when they’re not on the pull. 

 

They practically bug out of their sockets when she sees Trixie angrily marching up to Patsy, and dragging her outside by the ear. 

 

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,” she waves off her captor, ignoring his response. 

 

“Are you  _ mad?  _ You’re going to ruin your career before it’s begun? I’ll be damned if you take mine with you.” 

 

Trixie stalks angrily back and forth down the alley while Patsy fumes (figuratively and literally). 

 

“I’m not daft, Trixie. Believe it or not, I do have a bit of experience in being discreet about these matters. Besides, it was just flirting. I had zero intentions of engaging in any Daily Mail-worthy behaviors with that woman.” 

 

“But it’s just a matter of time, isn’t it? I mean, you could have warned us at least!” 

 

“Warned you?” 

 

“Oh, you know.” 

 

Patsy crosses her arms, both furious and amused. 

 

(Delia feels a mixture of fear and… something else entirely settle in the pit of her stomach at the sight.) 

 

“Yes, but I want to hear you say the  _ dreadful word  _ aloud.” 

 

“You could have told us that you’re a lesbian!” 

 

“Why, so you could have prevented me from joining your money-making machine? So you could have found a suitably heterosexual replacement? What are you going to say next, that you don’t have a problem with the gays, you just think it’s a public relations liability?”

 

Trixie stammers, obviously caught out on her planned argument. 

 

They both notice Delia’s presence, and Trixie finds a new tactic. 

 

“Well, how do you feel, Delia? Knowing that we could all be jeopardized by Patsy courting scandal?” 

 

Although she feels herself shaking, Delia attempts to channel Patsy’s outer cool. 

 

“I’m not sure I’m in a position to feel anything whatsoever about how Patsy chooses to spend her time off-stage, so long as she’s not hurting anyone or affecting her ability to perform.” 

 

Patsy, for her part, looks both shocked and grateful, and Delia gives her a small smile of support. 

 

(Although, for all her talk, she is feeling some kind of way about the events of tonight.) 

 

Trixie studies Delia suspiciously. 

 

“I had no idea Wales was so progressive.” 

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that it was, but my parents taught me to judge people by the content of their character, and I don’t think anyone would bat an eye if Patsy had been chatting up the dreadful bloke who cornered me. Mam says ‘leave the judging to God,’ you know?” 

 

(She exaggerates her accent for extra doe-eyed innocence.) 

 

Trixie redirects her ire to Patsy. 

 

“You can’t keep this from everyone. You tell them, or I will.” 

 

Patsy shrugs. 

 

“I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. This is entirely your problem.” 

 

Trixie wanders back to the bar, muttering about salvaging her night if it takes a litre of vodka and dancing until her feet are blistered. 

 

Patsy stands, stunned and trembling. 

 

“I don’t think Trix knows what hit her.” 

 

“I’m sorry? Oh,” she shakes off the stupor, “god, it never gets any easier.” 

 

“You made it look pretty easy.” 

 

Patsy leans against the brick, closing her eyes. 

 

“I’m proud of who I am, Delia. My family and friends all know who I am, and if they take issue, that’s that. But it still scares me shitless every time some homophobe goes off on me.” 

 

“I think she was more shocked than anything.” 

 

Patsy rolls her eyes. 

 

“Yes, and I’m sure she has so many gay male friends from the dance world, and they’re just dears to her, never mind that she only treats them as accessories, not as fully-formed human beings.” 

 

“Point taken.” 

 

“And I doubt you’ve spent your entire life in the company of queers, unless you’ve been holding far more things close to the vest than I anticipated.” 

 

Delia laughs, before somberly reflecting on the ‘confirmed bachelors’ and ‘old maids’ who were obliquely referenced in her home town. 

 

“I think I’ve known my fair share without anyone saying as much.” 

 

Patsy nods in understanding. 

 

“You know, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were-” 

 

Patsy cuts herself off, mortified at the potential ending of her stream-of-consciousness. 

 

“-never mind.” 

 

“You’re very brave, Pats.” 

 

(Delia blushes, well aware of what was very nearly said. )

 

Patsy smirks. 

 

“Hardly, Deels. Just irrepressible.” 

 

“Patsy, will you do me a favour?” 

 

“Anything within reason.” 

 

“If I go to bat for you, will you help me avoid the world’s least interesting man back inside?” 

 

“Shall I merely run interference, or would you like me to destroy his ego while I’m at it?” 

 

“It’s our night, Patsy. Live it up!” 

 

“Evisceration it is, then.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think in modern-ish times, Patsy would be much more out-and-proud- she's pretty open about her misandry in canon, and practically tells Ms. Busby she's fucking her daughter, so i don't think it's too much of a stretch for her to dismantle the arguments of homophobia. 
> 
> I also think it's really fun to play with the idea of this bold, self-assured patsy (well, at least on the sexuality front, she's certainly got plenty of other insecurities) and a delia who is still figuring herself out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> records and concerts and outings, oh my!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI I'M ALIVE AND I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN THESE BB'S OR THEIR POP STARDOM JOURNEY

It’s either fitting or perverse that Patsy convenes their Sunday morning “personal meeting” in the chapel. Despite the others’ protests about hangover (‘if the queen herself isn’t downstairs I swear I will never forgive you’, Lucille had warned), the mood quickly turns from cranky to serious as normally unflappable Patsy falters. 

 

“This isn’t exactly the manner in which I intended to divulge this information, but I’m under a bit of pressure,” (she directs a pointed glare at Trixie), “so here goes. I’m gay.” 

 

“And the pope’s Catholic,” Lucille deadpans. “Can I please go back to bed now?” 

 

Trixie looks shocked that her concerns aren’t shared, while Barbara sits in stunned silence. 

 

“You don’t think her orientation is a risk factor?” 

 

“Less so than your smoking,” Lucille dismisses. “Patsy, who, by the way, should maybe be a part of this conversation, is as professional as anyone I’ve ever met. Goodness knows blokes get into all sorts of unsavory business without ever taking a hit in their careers. I could care less who you snog, Patsy.” 

 

“Thanks, Lucille, I’m flattered, I think.” 

 

Barbara pipes up meekly. 

 

“I’ve never met a homosexual before.” 

 

“Sorry to traumatise you, Babs.” 

 

“No, no!” Barbara hops up to assure her. “I didn’t mean it like that, Patsy, you’re still just as grand as you were five minutes ago, well, I guess that I’m not as worldly as Lucille, so I’m just more caught off-guard. You’re so… pretty?” 

 

Patsy barks out a laugh. 

 

“We can have a conversation about the difference between gender identity and sexual orientation at a later date, but don’t fret, I’ll still wear all my costumery and makeup and play the part. Now you just all happen to know the most private information about me.” 

 

(She shoots daggers again at Trixie, for good measure.) 

 

“So you’re still going to show us up at parties then, eh?” jokes Lucille. 

 

“I can’t help it that I’m flawless.” 

_ 

 

Everyone scatters to spend the rare day off in peace and quiet, but Delia can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy when she witnesses Trixie’s compulsive chain smoking. 

 

“It’ll be alright, you know.” 

 

“I swear I’m not as hateful as you think me to be, Delia, it’s just, I’ve worked so hard for this, and I’ll be damned if anyone but myself takes it away from me.” 

 

“We’ve all worked hard, Trix, certainly Patsy has. But it’s scary to feel like things are out of your control.” 

 

“I suppose I should be grateful she’s just hitting on randos and not embarking on an affair with anyone else in the group. Talk about drama.” 

 

“Yeah,” Delia laughs, feeling suddenly queasy. “Or, worse yet, dating someone more famous than we are!” 

 

Trixie snorts. 

 

“Delia, I love and hate that you knew exactly what my worst case scenario would be. But my persona is ‘the vapid one,’ you know. I’m merely fulfilling Phyllis’s prophecy,” she smiles wryly. 

 

“It’s weird isn’t it, how sudden it all is? I feel like I’m still me, but I’m not me at all.” 

 

Trixie giggles.

 

“Oh, sweetie, I’ve never had the slightest idea who I am. This is all an absolute lark.” 

_ 

 

They’re awoken Monday morning bright and early with the news that not only was the gig a rousing success, but the focus group numbers for the band’s image are through the roof. Now, the only thing to do is to make the actual album. 

 

It doesn’t take long for the shine to wear off- they go from rehearsals straight into the studio, recording 10 songs plucked from the industrial machine. 

 

“I used to think there was no such thing as a bad song, if the singer was good enough, but some of these… I’m not so sure,” Lucille bemoans. 

 

“I don’t know if you noticed, but ‘good’ is not a prerequisite for ‘successful,’” Patsy observes. 

 

“Ladies, you have the UK’s best musicians playing with you, you have our label’s top talent working on every level of the project. Now is not the time for artistic integrity,” Phyllis warns. 

 

(She reminds them of the language in their contracts, as well, just in case anyone’s feeling too principled.) 

 

Delia thinks the end result is more from the mixing board than their performances, but she can’t deny that the album is catchy. It’s everything pop music should be- fun, hooky, exciting to sing but not so difficult that anyone can’t join in with the radio. 

 

But heavens, recording is exhausting. She feels herself shrinking into herself, from fatigue and a twinge of disappointment. 

 

Patsy shakes her out of a stupor, Delia leaning against the brick wall, eyes glassy. 

 

“Not quite Joni Mitchell, is it, Deels?” 

 

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess this isn’t quite what I thought I was working towards, you know?” 

 

Patsy shrugs, swinging her arms aimlessly (fingers itching for a cigarette). 

 

“I’ve had my dreams crushed plenty of times before- this is dandy in comparison to singing Vera Lynn to old men who spend all night trying to reach a hand up your skirt… But I’m a cynic. I don’t believe you are.” 

 

Delia mock-frowns. 

 

“You don’t think I can pull off the  _ Hardened Badass  _ look?” 

 

Patsy grins, lop-sided and adoring, and Delia feels a million times better than she did ten minutes ago. 

 

“I think you can do anything you set your mind to, but I like that you care so much. It reminds me to keep a little hope in my heart every now and then.” 

 

Delia blushes at the compliment. 

 

“I’m not wrong though- the album is terrible, right?”

 

“Lyrically? Pure rubbish. But it’s fun. And we’ll have a blast performing it, won’t we?” 

 

“As long as we don’t tour through Wales. My mam won’t be able to look me in the eye after witnessing that!” 

_ 

 

It’s only two months between recording the album and heading out for the release tour, but Delia feels like her bandmates are as close to her now as sisters, with everything they’ve been through. Even Lucille, who treats the whole experience the most like a job out of any of them, can’t help but show affection towards the others. 

 

“Look, I know you’re probably the type to forgo parties and such, but I  _ insist _ on making you a proper sponge, at the very least,” she threatens Patsy, on the redhead’s  (highly classified) birthday.

 

“As long as the press still thinks I’m 23, have at it, love!” 

 

Trixie floats around the kitchen, claiming domestic incompetence but supervising fastidiously nonetheless, as Barbara and Delia apron up and assume sous chef duties. 

 

The cake really is magnificent- rum and spice with the best buttercream frosting Delia has ever tasted (no offense, mam). 

 

“You girls have really outdone yourselves,” Patsy remarks, her voice cracking slightly. 

 

“Oh, Patsy, is it okay? Are you alright? Oh, I’m so sorry if we’ve upset you,” Barbara frets. 

 

“No, no, it’s lovely, I promise. I just, I’m not really very close with my family, so I haven’t had anyone bake me a cake in ages. I’m not upset, just moved, truly.” 

 

She welcomes them all into a group hug (even Trixie) before the evening turns to shots and karaoke and bad dance moves and all-out silliness. 

 

Barbara, Trixie, and Lucille are attempting to recreate the latest B*witched choreography (clogging is involved?), but Delia is too wobbly to attempt such feats. She slowly slides down the wall until she’s sitting cross legged. Patsy offers her a bottle of water before (much more gracefully) joining her. 

 

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Patience,” Delia whispers. 

 

“Oh Deels, I do believe you’re too drunk to even flirt properly.” 

 

“Who said anything about flirting? I don’t flirt.” 

 

Patsy raises a brow, visibly biting her tongue. 

 

“Everyone flirts. Not necessarily romantically. Perhaps banter is a more acceptable term?” 

 

“Oh, yes. I’m a great banterer. A regular Abbott and Costello.” 

 

“Both?” 

 

“I don’t know! THIRD BASE”

 

“Well, gosh, I suppose I’m not needed here, am I?” 

 

“Nooooooo, stayyyyy,” Delia leans against Patsy’s shoulder. “You’re my favourite.” 

 

Patsy rolls her eyes as Delia closes hers in relaxation. 

 

“You’re my favourite, too. Even if you can’t hold your liquor.” 

 

Patsy manages to convince Delia to go to bed after a bit of a row.

 

_ “What’s wrong with sleeping in the kitchen, huh Pats?” _

_ “So many things.”  _

_ “Do you have something against kitchens?”  _

_ “No, Deels, I just don’t want you giving me hell when you wake up with a crick in your neck and a bruise on your backside from the linoleum.” _

 

The others are too engaged in their revelry to notice them slip away. 

 

Delia hums contentedly as Patsy tucks her in, fully clothed. 

 

“I hope you had a good birthday, Pats. I’m glad you were born. Twenty-eight looks good on you.” 

 

“I think sober looks better on you.”

 

“I’m adorable and you know it.” 

 

“Yeah, I do. But any more and you might have lapsed into Welsh and I wouldn’t be able to translate your banter.” 

 

“That would have been really tragic. I’m glad you could appreciate my wit. It probably made your party more fun.” 

 

“The most fun.” 

 

(Delia wants to sleep, because it’s dark and cold, but Patsy’s smile is the sun. So bright, and warm, and lovely.) 

 

“I almost wrote you a song, for today, you know?” 

 

“Did you now?” 

 

Delia nods, solemn. 

 

“I did, but then it sounded too much like a love song, so I gave up.” 

 

“You don’t seem the type to give up easily.” 

 

“I’m not. I just… I’ve never written a love song before. It’s scary.” 

 

Patsy nods sagely. 

 

“Sweet dreams, Delia. May they be free of monsters and love songs.” 

 

“Night, Pats. Happy birthday.” 

 

Delia isn’t sure how long Patsy stays, only that she’s gone when she wakes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> virginia went blue! i got a new job! hope you've all been well in the THREE FUCKING MONTHS since I updated <3 <3 <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> idk, the unresolved sexual tension continues? fame has it's price?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HOLIDAYS

Delia wakes up with a pounding headache and the nauseating feeling she’s made an ass of herself. 

 

(Oh, wait, that’s actual nausea.) 

 

Even after being sick, however, she still feels like she might have said something she shouldn’t have. Between gulps of water, visions of Patsy’s crooked smile and fond eyes appear, and Delia’s tongue feels heavy with the memory of her confession. 

 

“ _ I’ve never written a love song before.”  _

 

Her stomach decides to purge the shame a second time, and after brushing her teeth, Delia returns to bed, pulling the covers over her head and assuming the fetal position. 

 

She tries to quell her hyperventilating, breathing deeply through her nose and squeezing her eyes shut until the panic subsides to a level where she can hear her own thoughts. 

 

These things are true: 

  1. She’s never written a love song. (Unless you count the one she wrote for the puppy she got for Christmas in 1985. But that’s between her and Rufus.) 
  2. Anytime she thinks about Patsy, like, just pictures her face and her smile and her voice, meditates on her outside the professional setting, she feels a bit like she needs to vomit and/or pee, regardless of outside circumstance. 
  3. Based on the numerous books and films and songs Delia has consumed, these symptoms may indicate an infatuation of the romantic sort. 



 

But, is it just projection? Did  _ knowing  _ that Patsy fancies women give Delia a stupid schoolgirl crush on her? 

 

(She thinks to herself, that Patsy would probably find that term, “schoolgirl crush” to be misogynistic and dismissive of the very real and valid emotional entanglements of adolescent women.)

 

Furthermore, the women that Delia has seen Patsy interact with are  _ nothing  _ like her. They’re tall, and thin, and glamorous, and she’s just, well,  _ Welsh.  _ Patsy is very clearly a worldly woman, and Delia can’t even hold her liquor without babbling like a besotten idiot. 

 

She suspects that if anything, Patsy probably feels toward her like a big sister. 

 

Delia feels like a fool.

 

She’s lucky that Barbara was up and out of their room before her rude awakening, but she probably can’t hide all day. Eventually the growling of her stomach convinces her to face the music, as it were. 

 

“I was just about to check on you,” Barbara chirps, “you know we’ve got to leave in an hour, right?” 

 

Delia hasn’t the faintest idea what she’s talking about. 

 

“We’re filming  _ Jools Holland _ today, remember?” 

 

(Lucille is not amused by Delia’s confusion.) 

 

“Fucking hell. Good thing it’s your feature, huh?” 

 

She’s met with an eye roll. 

 

Trixie offers a steaming mug. 

 

“Have a cuppa, sweetie. They say green tea is great for a detox.” 

 

Delia accepts it gratefully, letting her eyes adjust to the light. 

 

They settle on Patsy, who lounges against the counter, all long limbs and smug smiles. 

 

“Rough morning?”

 

Delia frowns. 

 

“It’s kind of you all to pretend you couldn’t hear me retching mere minutes ago.” 

 

“I tried to warn you. Or at least hydrate you.” 

 

“I’m grown enough to make my own mistakes, Pats, thank you very much.” 

 

The redhead raises her hands, backing away at Delia’s bitter tone. 

 

It’s the product of  half-hangover and half-embarrassment, but the crueler part of Delia is relieved to see Patsy’s fondness visibly diminish. 

 

“If you’ll permit a bit more advice,” Lucille interjects, “Kindly take a shower before our national television debut.” 

_

Delia finds that her headache is sufficiently diminished by the time they get to the studio that it merely takes the edge off her nerves. She feels a bit sluggish, but fortunately they’re performing a ballad, where the choreography is more of the “sway and snap” variety. 

 

In the weird out-of-body-experience that always accompanies these sorts of things, she finds herself marveling at how  _ good  _ they are. Damn her conniving ways, but Phyllis knows her shit. 

 

As the audience applauds and they take their bows through huge smiles, it’s easy to remember that  _ this  _ is the only thing in the world that really matters right now. 

_

 

When the segment airs, her mother has some different thoughts. 

 

“Delia, you said it was a pop group, but you didn’t say you would be performing with prostitutes!” 

 

“Mam, seriously? Have you looked at a magazine lately?” 

 

“I’m just saying, that redhead could have walked in off of any street corner.” 

 

“Oh, come on, Patsy was hardly wearing anything worse than a Bond girl. And besides, she’s-” 

 

“She’s what, dear?”

 

“Nevermind. How did you like the  _ music _ , then?”

 

“ _ You _ were wonderful, cariad.” 

 

“So you don’t want to come to the Cardiff show?” 

 

“Don’t be cheeky, Delia, it’s unbecoming. How many tickets can you get us?” 

 

“You’re not bringing the whole town. I promise you’ll have plenty of opportunities to brag on me, elsewhere. How’s four?” 

 

“VIP?” 

 

“Naturally. Are you sure you want to come back stage? There may be scantily clad women.” 

 

“You know, you’ve gotten awfully disrespectful since you moved to the big city.” 

 

“I love you too, mam.” 

 

Delia hangs up the phone with a sigh, somehow more tired than she was after a grueling week of press tour. 

 

“Your mum seems like an  _ absolute doll,”  _ Patsy deadpans from the couch. 

 

“She’s a bit old-fashioned.” 

 

“Not to eavesdrop, but just how terrified ought I to be in the event she does join us backstage?” 

 

“She’s all bark and no bite- if you can handle a snide remark about your cleavage you’ll be fine.” 

 

“Nothing they haven’t heard before.” 

 

Patsy looks down to her chest, shrugging, and Delia blushes as her own eyes follow. 

 

“I’m sure most of their reviews are favorable.” 

 

“Privileged information, Deels. Privileged information.”

 

(Delia wonders, briefly, if Death-By-Smirking is possible, and if she may or may not currently be deceased.) 

 

“Do you have anyone bothering you to get on a guest list?”

 

“Acquaintances, maybe. My dad isn’t about to travel from Hong Kong for a MidLife concert.” 

 

“You don’t see him much?”

 

“Cards at Christmas, flowers on my birthday, when he remembers. I was in boarding school since I could walk.” 

 

Delia’s not so naive as to inquire about a mother- Patsy’s shrug and grimace indicate it’s not a conversation she’s willing to have. 

 

“My parents have already made matching t-shirts with my face on them-  _ LUCILLE’S #1 FAN.”  _

 

“My father wants to do a rewrite of ‘The Only Way’ to make it about eternal salvation.” 

 

“I’ve already warned security about my dad. The last performance he was at was my ballet recital, and he got so pissed he heckled the toddlers in tutus.” 

 

“Do you suppose we could auction off our guest list spots? I’ve still got bills to pay.” 

 

Trixie laughs. 

 

“I don’t think it’s worth the risk of having an absolute creep coming backstage.” 

 

Patsy yawns. 

 

“And here I was, holding out for a wealthy lady benefactor.” 

 

“I promise you, there will always be more ghastly men than rich lesbians in this world.”

 

“And more white mediocrity than black excellence in the music industry.” 

 

“And more  _ absolutely disgusting perverts  _ than people who let me eat a lolly in peace!” 

 

Barbara looks up from a computer screen, disgusted. 

 

It looks like a paparazzi shot, the group walking around london, Barbara enjoying her favorite sherbet lolly. But the comments underneath are… vile. 

 

“Babs, love, those comments are from sad losers wasting their lives in their mum’s spare room,” Trixie reassures. 

 

“But, you may want to limit your lollipop consumption to the privacy of your own home. Modern times, and all,” Patsy warns. 

 

“This shit makes almost makes me wish I was a lesbian,” Lucille quips. 

 

“Does that mean you aren’t going to show us a million more photos of your fiance?” 

 

(Delia’s retort is met with a pillow to the face.) 

 

“I can’t believe we leave for two months tomorrow,” Barbara gasps. “I’ve never traveled that long before.” 

 

“I can’t believe we get to sleep in posh hotel beds for the next eight weeks,” 

 

(The look on Patsy’s face is positively dreamy.) 

 

There are, after all, benefits to pop stardom. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tour! Angst! Scotch! 
> 
> (also i love valerie dyer too much not to throw her in here sorry not sorry)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> taking a break from yelling at racists on facebook to distract myself with fictional lesbians god bless

It’s early in the evening, but the other girls are already calling it a night, judging by Trixie’s rollers and Barbara’s slippers. The more Patsy thinks about tomorrow, being on the road for 8 weeks with no control of when and where things happen, no way to leave, the more her chest tightens and her heart races. She can’t just  _ go to bed  _ in the middle of a fucking panic attack.

 

“I’m gonna head out for a bit, catch up with a friend before we skip town.” 

 

Lucille raises a brow. “You’re not going off to war, you know.” 

 

“Have fun!” Barbara grins, going for full-on supportive mum.

 

“If you aren’t here on time tomorrow I’ll kill you with my bare hands,” Trixie smiles sweetly. 

 

Delia hops to her feet, grabbing a scarf that hangs from a bedpost. 

 

“Keep warm,” she urges, placing it gently around Patsy’s neck, fingers brushing lightly down the length of her arm. 

 

(She is so sincere, and sweet, and Patsy hates how Delia simultaneously makes her want to be a better person and feel like the most rubbish human being of all time.) 

 

“Don’t wait up.” 

_ 

 

“Ready to slum it again, eh?” 

 

She hears Val before she sees her, but the wry grin is evident in her voice. 

 

“To be quite frank, I’m having a bit of a meltdown, I’m afraid.” 

 

“You’d never be able to tell by looking at you,” she winks, placing one hand over Patsy’s and using the other to grab a bottle from behind the bar. 

 

“But if you need something to calm your nerves.” 

 

“You really are a godsend.” 

 

“Tell me something I don’t know.” 

 

Val leans back expectantly, waiting for Patsy to spill whatever it is that has her returning to the scene of so many dreadful gigs. 

 

Patsy sips her Scotch, taking in Val while avoiding her problems. 

 

She’s objectively gorgeous, in that delightfully rough way. Crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up (what  _ is  _ it about a woman’s forearms,  _ honestly? _ ), bright blue eyes  shining with mirth and wit and more than a bit of flirtation at all moments. 

 

It’s easy to remember why they had fallen into bed, on the nights where friendship didn’t feel like enough, and love seemed like an impossible thing that only fictional characters and strangers knew. 

 

(And, should Val ever need a reference attesting to her skills in the bedroom, Patsy would be more than happy to oblige. Just because it’s only a fuck doesn’t mean it isn’t bloody fantastic.) 

 

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or are you just going to stare at me wistfully all night?” 

 

Suddenly, horror washes over her face. 

 

“Oh, god, you’re not here to make a desperate confession of your love for me after all these years, now that fame has made you see what you’ve left behind?” 

 

Patsy chokes on her whisky. 

 

“Dear lord, you’re about to ruin my voice the night before a world tour. And no, it’s not that, no offense, you’re a real catch, Val, but I’m afraid I’ve mucked up even worse than that.” 

 

“Come out with it, then.” 

 

“I seem to fancy one of my bandmates.” 

 

“Straight girl crush. We’ve all been there,” Val nods sagely. 

 

“But she’s not! I mean, I don’t have ironclad evidence, but you know I’m good.” 

 

“Calling George Michael does not a gaydar expert make.” 

 

Patsy glares. 

 

“I’m telling you Val, if Delia Busby hadn’t grown up in a small town in the middle of nowhere she would be the grand marshal of the London Pride parade.” 

 

Val rolls her eyes. 

 

“And you and I know better than anyone that pushing someone out of the closet before they’re ready never ends well. Besides, even if she were already out and proud, you do have to work together. Learn from Fleetwood Mac’s mistakes, love.” 

“I know, god, I  _ know.  _ I just want validation that I’m not crazy, I suppose.” 

 

“Consider yourself validated. And hey, think of the plus side- once you really hit it big, you will be swimming in eligible bachelorettes.” 

 

“That sounds revolting.” 

 

“It was better in my head. More fish, et cetera?” 

 

“Also revolting.” 

 

“I’ll just stay away from aquatic metaphors. Point being, you are a gem, and the infatuation will fade. I’ve heard tour buses are pretty brutal- maybe she’ll foul up the toilet or something- poof! Crush gone.” 

 

Patsy just glares. 

 

“You know, I was going to suggest we have a roll in the hay to get the whole thing out of my system, but you’ve quite ruined the mood.” 

 

Val arches an eyebrow, skeptical. 

 

“I respect myself too much to risk you calling out some other woman’s name whilst I’m performing cunnilingus on you, thank you.” 

 

“First of all, you and I both know I would be topping. Second of all, how dare you.” 

 

In the end, the laughter with a good friend is a better distraction than a half-hearted orgasm, anyhow. Still, Val sends her off into the night with a tight hug and a gentle kiss. 

 

“You’re a star, Pats. Everything else will fall in line.” 

_

 

Patsy attempts to be as quiet as possible when returning to the convent (it’s half gone two, after all), but even her ginger footsteps awaken a slumped form on the sofa. 

 

“Patsy? Is that you?” 

 

Delia stretches, hair-mussed and bleary-eyed. 

 

(Patsy is both immensely touched that she’s waited up, and annoyed at the pretense.) 

 

“Sorry to wake you, I won’t be long.” 

 

“I put on a kettle- I know it’s chilly tonight.” 

 

“That’s very sweet, Delia, thank you.” 

 

(She really does mean it, but her tone is a bit standoffish, nonetheless.) 

 

Delia hovers for a moment, indecisive, before sensing that broaching Patsy’s iciness isn’t worth the risk. 

 

“I should get to bed. Long day tomorrow.” 

 

Patsy sighs into her tea kettle, wishing she knew how to be kind without breaking her own heart in the process. 

_ 

 

It’s easy to put on a facade in front of the others, brilliant smiles and boisterous jokes and just-bawdy-enough remarks to the press. For 90% of the day, Patsy is unflappable, a brick wall of bravado and charm. 

 

But those moments sneak in, where Delia is asleep against the bus window, or harmonizing with her, or letting her hair down in the hotel washroom, and for half a second, Patsy feels her breath hitch, her heart stop. 

 

She had thought about keeping a diary on this tour, filling the pages with thoughts and memories and things she could show her godchildren one day (they don’t exist yet, but she knows that’s more likely than kids of her own). But all she keeps writing is a reminder: 

 

_ DON’T END UP CHRISTINE MCVIE.  _

 

Hardly glamourous. Barely insightful. She burns the pages as she lights a cigarette. 

 

She knows Delia’s hurt at her sudden purposeful distance, despite her perpetual amiability with everyone she encounters. There’s a sadness in the younger woman’s eyes when she thinks no one is looking, a longing that Patsy isn’t sure she has identified herself. 

 

They rotate hotel rooms (2 doubles and a single, “you’re not making Wham! money yet,” Phyllis had answered their protests), and Patsy manages to avoid bunking with Delia for as long as possible (she thinks Lucille is on to her game, because she offers to trade on no less than three occasions). 

 

But when Trixie loudly bemoans that Patsy already had the single this week, and besides, isn’t it her turn to share with Delia, she’s forced to face her fears, or dig herself a deeper hole. 

The gig that night was brutal- bad sound, rude crowd. Trixie had two tequila shots before they went on stage and forgot her lead verse (which Lucille remembered before anyone outside the band caught on, thank god). 

 

Everyone’s feeling raw and angry and disappointed, and while Patsy would like nothing more than to crawl under the covers and pass out, Delia isn’t having it. 

 

“What did I do?” 

 

“As far as I recall, Trixie is the one that made a royal arse of herself,” Patsy groans into her pillow. 

 

“I’m serious, Patsy. What on earth did I do to make you treat me like you’re allergic? You’re friendlier to Trixie than you are to me, and she tried to get you thrown out of the group!” 

 

Patsy sits up, sighing, debating how to explain herself without a) ruining everything and b)looking like a complete twat. 

 

“You didn’t do anything, Delia. I, promise.” 

 

It’s too little, too late though. By this point, Delia is pacing around the room, Welsh lilt thickening as her frustration builds. 

 

“Were you just nice at the beginning out of pity, and now you just think I’m annoying? Oh, the naive little farm girl thinks she can make it in the big city- how quaint! You know what, I’m not even mad at you, I’m mad at myself, because even though you will barely look at me, I  _ still- _ ” 

 

“You still what, Delia?” 

 

(Patsy can barely hear her own voice over the pounding of her heart in her ears.) 

 

Delia’s shoulders slump, the anger suddenly gone, replaced by defeat. 

 

“Nevermind.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Patsy chokes out, embarrassed. Ashamed. 

 

“Me, too,” Delia huffs, climbing into bed and turning towards the wall. 

 

Patsy needs sleep- exhaustion certainly isn’t helping with the tension between them, but she loses track of the hours she spends lying in the dark, staring in the ceiling, wishing she could fix the mess she’s made. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! you're a peach!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> slow burn continues to slow burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these two were really trying to make some smut happen but i had to stop them. ALL IN GOOD TIME, LADIES.

Delia’s mam always says “a good night’s sleep can solve most of the world’s problems.” As far as she knows, world hunger is still quite an issue, but Delia does find that she feels better in the morning, despite the angst of the night before. 

 

Patsy looks like hell, but her smile is kind as she offers Delia a cup of coffee. 

 

“It’s the least I could do.” 

 

“Thanks,” Delia whispers, gathering the mug in her hands and hiding her face behind the cloud of steam, studying Patsy. 

 

She looks nervous, fingers drumming against porcelain between sips. 

 

“God, I could really use a smoke right now.” 

 

“What’s stopping you?” 

 

(Delia can’t quite keep the bitterness from her voice.) 

 

Patsy shrugs, nonchalantly, taking the bite in stride. 

 

“I thought that if I was going to stop trying to avoid you I should probably give up the habit.” 

 

“How considerate.” 

 

“Are you going to punish me forever?” 

 

Delia narrows her eyes. 

 

“It’s been all of five minutes. I think you can squirm for a day before my benevolence shines upon you once more.” 

 

Patsy rolls her eyes, blowing her fringe off of her forehead. 

 

“I mean, there are circumstances where I would actually be thrilled to have a woman be cruel and withholding from me, but there’s usually far less clothing involved.” 

 

Delia swallows the last of her coffee and slams the cup on the table, before sauntering towards the door. 

 

“Who knows, Pats, play your cards right and one day, that too, could be yours.” 

(As she exits, the mirror on the wall shows Patsy’s mouth open in stunned shock.) 

_ 

 

Delia may not like to claim many commonalities with her mother, but she can’t deny that she shares her passive-aggressive qualities. 

 

Rather than icing Patsy out (and drawing more undue attention), she decides to really lean in to a renewed kindness. 

 

She lets her hands linger on Patsy’s just a little too long, insists on helping her with her coat, practically sits in her lap on the bus when they’re short a seat (what with Trixie’s hat box and new dress purchases). 

 

If Patsy wants to make crass comments, she’ll reap the full reward of them. 

 

Delia may be a neophyte in matters of seduction (and lesbian seduction in particular), but if Patsy’s flared nostrils and heavy breathing are any indication, she’s a natural. 

 

And god, does Delia feel omnipotent, no longer pining from afar, sad and rejected. 

 

It’s a revelation, how different it feels to turn the tables, to push the limit instead of hiding and sulking and worrying every second how Patsy feels about her. 

 

She does tone it down for the press junket, although Patsy is firing on all cylinders. 

 

“Now Delia, it seems the fans have dubbed you ‘the quiet one.’ What do you think of that?” 

 

“I think my mam would have a good laugh- I was always making some sort of noise growing up!” 

 

“It’s the quiet ones you have to look out for,” Patsy winks. 

 

“Silent but deadly, right Deels?” Barbara mimes a 007 pose, completely oblivious to Patsy’s innuendo.

 

Lucille pulls her aside in the dressing room before the gig. 

 

“I know you were supposed to bunk with me tonight, but do you want me to trade with Patsy? It seems like you two have… something to work out.” 

 

Delia frowns. 

 

“If I didn’t know better I would think you were just angling to get the solo room two nights in a row.” 

 

“Trixie is too absorbed in partying to notice anyone else, and Barbara is too naive, bless her heart, but I, for one, have had quite enough of all the unresolved sexual tension.” 

 

“I’m not a…” 

 

“Dear, I didn’t say you were anything. But as far of objects of fancy, you could certainly do worse than that.” 

 

They both look at Patsy, pursing her lips and applying lipstick. 

 

Delia clears her throat. 

 

“Thank you for your generosity, but my parents are meeting us backstage after the show and apparently have taken a room in the hotel, so I’d just as soon not have a sexual awakening within their earshot. And, in case you didn’t forget,  _ we work together.”  _

 

“You could have just said ‘no, thanks.’”

 

“And you could have said nothing,” Delia glares. 

_ 

 

It’s a much better performance that night, thank god. (Barbara has managed to distract Trixie from drinking by begging for advice about Tom. It’s insufferable for the rest of them to hear, but Trixie looks glad to be useful, so, small mercies.) 

 

True to form, Delia’s parents are already backstage by the time they’ve finished the final curtain call. 

 

“That was quick.” 

 

“Oh, your manager Phyllis knows an equal when she sees one, cariad! Congratulations, we’re so proud.” 

 

“Never forget that I’m the one that taught you to play guitar,” her father admonishes, jokingly. 

 

“Well, shall I introduce you to everyone?” 

 

Mam is perfectly warm when she meets Barbara, Trixie, and Lucille, but she’s visibly icy when shaking Patsy’s hand.

  
  


“It’s an honour to meet you, Mrs. Busby- we’re all so fond of your daughter.” 

 

“Of course you are.” 

 

“Now, if the musical talent was from her father, does that mean she gets her looks from you?” 

 

Oh no. Patsy is  _ not  _ trying to  _ flirt  _ with her mother. Delia might be annoyed with her right now, but she doesn’t want her to  _ die.  _

 

Fortunately, her dad is quick to jump in and save the moment. 

 

“I resemble that remark!” 

 

Judging by the adoring look in her mam’s eyes, at least someone at the hotel is going to get lucky tonight.

 

_ Blech.  _

 

As soon as the Busby’s are out of earshot, the whole band bursts out laughing. 

 

“Oh my god, I really thought she was going to kill you, Pats, what on earth!” Lucille gasps through tears. 

 

“Flattering a woman has rarely steered me wrong before- I was acting on pure instinct!” 

 

“I think you owe Delia’s father a rather nice bottle of scotch. Or at least some fancy chocolates,” Trixie opines. 

 

“He’s actually partial to old records, if you really want to score points.” 

 

Barbara pops the cork on a bottle of champagne. 

 

“To the continued existence of Patience Elizabeth Mount!” 

 

Delia can drink to that. 

_ 

 

Delia is the first back to the room- she expects that Lucille is on her customary evening phone call and wanted some privacy. 

 

But when the door opens, it’s not who she anticipated.

 

“You… are not Lucille.” 

 

“I should hope not- the last thing we need is a bad Freaky Friday reboot around these parts. Oh,” Patsy tosses her bag on the other bed, “ she guilted me into swapping with her- said I owed her or something…” 

 

“I’m going to kill her.” 

 

“But I only just escaped the snares of death myself! Have mercy, Deels.” 

 

Delia sighs and pouts, flopping onto her own mattress and staring at the ceiling.

 

“Deels? Are you alright?”

 

“Not really, no.” 

 

Concern colors Patsy’s voice. 

 

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Not anything that could be deemed remotely advisable.” 

 

“What about inadvisable?” 

 

Delia sits up, looking directly into Patsy’s eyes. 

 

“I think I know why you were avoiding me.” 

 

“Please don’t hate me, Delia. I’m sorry, it was just a stupid crush- I’ll get over it.” 

 

“I don’t want you to get over it.” 

 

Delia’s heart is pounding, her palms sweating, but she has never felt anything more strongly than in this moment. 

 

“It’s a bad idea Deels, not just because of the press thing.”

 

“I’m not ashamed of who I am.” 

 

“You don’t even know who you are!” 

 

Patsy’s words ignite a stubborn streak in Delia, and all thoughts of backing down leave her mind. 

 

“I know, beyond a doubt,” she steps forward, “that since the moment I first saw you, I have wondered what it would be like to kiss you.” 

 

“And I know,” Patsy counters, working hard to maintain her composure, “that dynamics within midLIFE are fragile enough without throwing romance into the mix.” 

 

Delia crosses her arms. 

 

“Will you at least afford me the dignity of admitting that you fancy me? Not just some excuse, or downplay of your feelings?” 

 

Patsy’s crooked smile is undoubtedly the most heartbreaking thing Delia has ever seen. 

 

“I fancy the pants off of you, Delia Busby, and would love nothing more than to ravish you in this hotel room, but I fear too greatly that we would both regret the implications of our decision in the morning.” 

 

Delia blushes crimson, aroused and embarrassed. 

 

“Wow, Pats. Thank you for burning that image into my head. Really appreciate it. Jesus.” 

 

Patsy shrugs, wrapping her arms around herself and shifting nearer. 

 

“What can I say- your mother’s right. I’m an absolute tart.” 

 

“I happen to think you’re being prudish at the moment.” 

 

“Would you like me to ring her and ask her opinion?” 

 

Delia blows a raspberry, before turning away, and getting ready for bed. 

 

Just as she’s about to turn off the lamp, Patsy bends over her. 

 

“If you really must know what all the fuss is about…” 

 

The kiss is soft, and sweet, and  _ so much more _ chaste than any of Delia’s daydreams, but it still makes her toes curl. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! you're a peach! too bad i wrote this lucille before seeing her in action and shipping her like hell with val!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i waited 5 months to update and all i gave you was more angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh i'm so sorry i let my anger at HT keep me from writing my beautiful bbbssssss

At the age of 28, Patsy Mount has never been in love. In lust, certainly. In infatuation, from time to time, before the fancy passes. But self-sacrificing, humbling, utterly unglamourous love? She’s practically allergic to intimacy. (Unresolved grief and an emotionally absent parent tend to have that effect.) 

 

As it stands, the fact that she’s made a declaration of feelings to Delia before she’s even seen her naked is… alarming. 

 

A clandestine affair between bandmates can be overcome. Absolute heartbreak? Not so much. 

 

And just like that, before she even has a chance to let herself feel giddiness at the fact that she did, in fact, kiss Delia, Patsy’s shut the whole fucking thing down in her mind. 

 

A heart can’t break if it’s never touched, baby. 

 

It’s an early travel day (who knew Sweden was in integral part of an inaugural tour?), and everyone’s too bleary-eyed for any sort of emotional processing. Patsy manages to make it through the next week of dates without anything more than a bit of banter with Delia. 

 

But in Helsinki, there’s a mixup with the cars, and they end up separated from the group, dumped at the hotel and missing dinner. 

 

(Honestly, Patsy’s sick of hobnobbing with record executives, but god, she’d take any cad in a suit over this dilemma.) 

 

“So,” Delia averts her eyes, avoiding rejection before it happens, “we could just get takeaway and have it up in the room? Watch a film, have an ordinary night?” 

 

“Only if you’re buying.” 

 

(Patsy cringes at how Delia’s grin makes her heart pound. She plans to eat as much onions and garlic as possible, to keep away vampires and welshwomen.) 

 

It’s honestly a lovely evening- as nice as any casual hang with Val, and certainly preferable to hearing Babs tell church stories. But the irrepressible Delia Busby cannot let sleeping dogs lie. 

 

“Pats?”

 

“You shouldn’t call me that, it’s overly familiar.” 

 

(Delia chooses to ignore her protest.)

 

“When you say it’s a bad idea, you and me, do you mean forever?” 

 

“Don’t leave the home fires burning for me, Delia.” 

 

“Stop being glib, for  _ once. _ “ 

 

Delia props up on her elbows, pierces through Patsy’s defenses with alarmingly clear eyes. 

 

“May I give a measured, practical answer, then?” 

 

Delia frowns, but nods her assent. 

 

“I think careers are a lot harder to come by than women are.” 

 

“You undersell yourself.” 

 

“You’ve got a long road ahead of yourself. And I’m much more trouble than most, I promise. Not just the smoking, or the ego, or the tendency to disappear on occasion.” 

 

“I’m much more stubborn than most.” 

 

“I’ve noticed.” 

 

“I don’t  _ want  _ to follow you around like a love sick puppy, you know. I’m not actively  _ trying _ to pine.”

 

“Delia.” 

 

“It’s just not  _ fair _ , that you get to act all cool as a cucumber, pretending you’ve never had any emotions in your goddamn life, when I  _ know _ I’m not imagining this, this  _ thing  _ between us.”

 

In a different world, Patsy would jump Delia’s bones right then and there, discarding their pyjamas in a pile on the floor, and then they’d run off into the sunset, abandoning pop stardom to live out in the country and run a feral cat rescue. 

 

Instead, she just swallows down the lump in her throat. 

 

“Delia, I’m allowed to say no for any reason, and you have to accept it. I’m allowed to say no, just because, even if I’ll love you until the day I die.” 

 

Delia doesn’t bother to wipe away the tears streaming down her cheeks, leaving rivulets in the makeup she hates so much. 

 

“And I’m allowed to decide that I can’t be around you. “ 

 

“I’m sorry.” 

“No, you’re not. You’re relieved.” 

 

Delia walks away to the other suite, and Patsy lies on the bed, immobilized. 

 

_ Fucking idiot.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes i want fics to feel realistic and healthy and sometimes i want to write a fucking ROM COM with all the tropes and dramatic gestures and that's where we're headed, baybeeee


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the tabloids go wild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this feels like a whole lot of plot, tbh, but i gotta set some stuff up to give you that good ass fluffff

 

When Trixie falls off stage in the middle of “Dance Away that Boy,” it becomes clear that her drinking problem isn’t something that can be politely covered up anymore. 

 

“I’m finneeeeee,” she yells, as the bouncers lift her backstage (and the remaining four band members muddle through the back half of the set). 

 

After that, the press are merciless, hounding them at every opportunity. The speculation in the papers quickly goes from alcohol to hard drugs (alcoholism is just  _ soooooo _ done, you know), and Phyllis spends most of her free time yelling at the band. 

 

“If you had just let me know early own we could have intervened!” 

 

Barbara blushes, all guilt. 

 

“I  thought I was protecting Trixie. I realize now that wasn’t my job.” 

 

Phyllis huffs. 

 

“Well, as it stands, Miss Franklin is on her way to an inpatient rehabilitation facility on the east coast, and the lot of you still have a tour to finish. I can look into getting a replacement, or you can rework the arrangements for four performers.” 

 

“It would be nearly impossible to create the right chemistry,” Lucille asserts. “We’ll just have to be a quartet, for the time being.” 

 

Delia is sat back, observing the scene like it’s someone else’s life. Every bit of control she had over this situation is rapidly dissolving. 

 

“What happens if we don’t finish the tour?” 

 

Phyllis glares at her. 

 

“You’ll all be found in breach of contract and considerably in debt.” Her face softens. “I know it’s not optimal circumstance, but seeing as the label hasn’t renewed the contract for the next album, you’ll have the chance to opt out at the end of the tour. If that’s what you wish.” 

 

“And will Trixie be allowed to come back?” 

 

Patsy looks far more concerned for her bandmate than she does about her career.

 

(Delia feels like a bit of a twat for her question, in hindsight.)

 

Phyllis sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

 

“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you. As a manager, I would say that any potential relapse is a liability for the label. As a friend, I would say that the life of a touring musician is rarely conducive to sobriety.” 

 

“Is there anything we can do to stop the nasty press about Trixie?” 

 

(Bless Barbara’s naive, hopeful heart.) 

 

“Short of contriving a bigger story, I don’t think so, no.” 

 

While the rest look downtrodden, Patsy’s eyes light up with a glimmer of possibility. 

 

“Alright girls, try to get a good night’s sleep- only two more weeks and you’ll all be back in your own beds.” 

 

They part ways to head to their rooms, but Patsy rushes to the pay phone. 

 

Delia knows it’s rude to eavesdrop, but she also knows that Patsy is undoubtedly up to  _ something.  _

  
  


“Val? I have a favor to ask. Do you remember those polaroids from Julie’s 25th?.... Yes, I’m sure… They’ll blur your face out if you ask- no offence, but no one cares about who you are… well, if you want the notoriety that’s fine by me, too... Please, charge as much as you possibly can- one of us might as well make some money…. Trust me, it’s the right thing.” 

 

Delia feels nauseated, like the floor is caving beneath her. God, she’d been such an idiot! Of course Patsy had someone waiting for her at home. Why wouldn’t she? 

 

In her disorientation she careens into the object of her turmoil. 

 

“Sorry, Deels, didn’t see you there… you didn’t hear that, did you?” 

 

“Why? Afraid I’m going to tell everyone about your secret girlfriend?” 

 

(She sounds petty and immature, but  _ fuck, _ it’s been a long day.)

 

“Val? Firstly, she’s not secret. Also not my girlfriend. But, since you’ve already got the wrong idea, she is in possession of photos of the two of us sharing a snog, many years ago, which I’ve instructed her to sell to the highest bidder.” 

 

“What happened to being discreet?” Delia frowns. 

 

“I can handle rude comments better than Trix. She’ll pretend to be mad that I’ve gone and outed myself, but she deserves a bit of a break.” 

 

“Do you plan on warning the others?” 

 

Patsy shakes her head, determined to bear the brunt of the responsibility herself. 

 

“And Delia? There’s… there’s not anyone else. Not that it matters, really, but.” 

 

Delia nods, thin-lipped. 

 

“Don’t bring me into your scandal, all right?” 

 

Patsy gives a mock salute as she walks away. 

 

_

 

It takes three days for the story to go to print. They’re just coming off stage of a festival in Paris when the vultures descend. 

 

“Patsy! What do you have to say about the photos published in  _ the Mirror _ ?”

 

“I’m glad it was that over  _ the Daily Mail _ .” 

 

“Who is the woman with you?”

 

“A fantastic kisser. Any other questions?” 

 

“Yeah,” a particularly swarthy bloke yells, “how do your bandmates feel about having a lezzer backstage with them?” 

 

Lucille doesn’t give him a moment’s pause. 

 

“We feel that Patsy has just as much right to be there as anyone else, and she’s entirely respectful and professional, unlike you bastards!” 

 

Phyllis rushes them into the limo, whereupon she proceeds to give them a tongue-lashing. 

 

“Bloody hell, Patsy, you could have given me some warning.” 

 

“What makes you think I knew that story was coming out? Vengeful ex’s get jealous, leak to the press, I don’t have any control over it.” 

 

“So it was just a coincidence that this story came out in the midst of Trixie’s media blitz? You and I both know good and well I wasn’t born yesterday.” 

 

“And you and I both know that this industry is full of queers of all persuasions, so in the end, me being outed can only be a positive thing.” 

 

“It’s not positive when the christian mums are boycotting our albums and forbidding their children from coming to the gigs! It’s not positive when filthy old men start talking online about how much they’d like to watch you with another woman!” 

 

“They’d probably be doing that last one anyway,” Barbara mumbles, remembering her own unwelcome sexualisation. 

 

“What’s done is done,” Delia sighs, “and we’ve only got 2 more gigs. Most people who bought tickets aren’t so principled in their homophobia as to throw that money down the drain.” 

 

“Well you’ve bloody well shot the whole idea of another album in the foot, haven’t you? What’s your plan, Patsy, marshalling C-list pride parades and cavorting with drag queens the rest of your career? Lucille, tell me you’ll make a solo album for us, at least.” 

 

“For the right price, I’ll sing the phone book, honey. I would recommend getting Delia on your songwriting staff, but she looks about sick of the music business at the moment.” 

 

“Pull over!” Delia yells, yanking the door open and leaning out the side. 

 

“Delia, was that the music industry, or that sushi you had before the gig?” Barbara rubs gentle circles on her back. 

 

“Never eat fish if you can’t see the ocean. Have I learned nothing from my father,” she moans. 

 

“Hope none of the photogs caught that,” Patsy muses, “They’ll be publishing a blind item about your unplanned pregnancy next thing you know.” 

**Author's Note:**

> so, i've played with the idea of writing songs for the group and posting demos to go with chapters as appropriate. It would probably mean slower turnaround on chapters, but would add an interesting dimension to the reading experience. Thoughts? 
> 
> (Also please send me literally all your musical opinions @blueblue-baby on tumblr. I can talk about songwriters and musicians all day, every day. And i need distractions from american politics.)


End file.
